


I Know My Body, I Know Yours

by nympheline



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nympheline/pseuds/nympheline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what it’s like, Molly realises. This is what it’s like to be really, truly important to someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is Kate, of course, so finely boned beneath her translucent skin that Molly can nearly see the marrow, rich and dark and thick as tongues, that flows along every lissome limb of her. Gabrielle, who flits in during the night, whom Molly wouldn’t have seen at all if she hadn’t suspected Irene of sleep apnea and set up a little camera on the bedside table to track Irene’s unconscious breathing patterns. There’s Georgette and Georgina, who are either twins, or the same person; just plain George, who always wanders in as if lost, then wanders out again, then wanders back with just the thing that Molly didn’t know she needed; and Josette, who speaks as expressively with her eyes and fingers and perfect black brows as she never bothers to with her mouth.

After that, Molly loses track. The women come and go, some talking of things far beyond Molly’s education, some not talking at all. Molly can’t remember their names, and their ageless faces all look the same, but Irene knows them all. Molly can tell. Molly can tell by the way Irene tenses when they throw open the curtains in the morning, the way Irene sighs and twists to show off what she thinks is her better side (her right one), or the way her mouth purses and presses in what Molly is sure is disappointment when a particularly pretty one leaves. Irene never really talks to any of them other than Kate, and Irene talking to Kate sounds more like Irene talking to herself than anything else; but even if she doesn’t speak, Irene looks, and the looking is worse.

Molly looks at Irene, who is—almost—always looking at her, and she buries her jealousy under a petal pink smile.

But Molly hates, _hates_ when they see her, when they come in before she’s dressed, when they come in after she’s undressed, when they drop off warm, rose-scented towels for Molly and Irene to use when the bath water gets cold. Prior to Irene, Molly had been completely naked in front of exactly five people, and three of those were present at her birth.

"Can’t you ask them to do that before we get in?" Molly says, her arms clasped across her chest, the wide, wobbly plane of her thigh aimed defensively at the latest faceless minion. "Or not to do it at all?"

Irene splits the mountain of bubbles with a red-tipped toe and draws an incision along Molly’s ribs. “Why?”

"Because I ask you. Isn’t that enough?"

"Of course it is, lovely, but I’m still curious."

"Because…" Molly looks at Irene’s wide, curious eyes, at the face that has never, not once in its life, worn any expression akin to embarrassment. "Because they can _see_ me,” she says, trying to make it sound more righteously indignant and less self-consciously miserable. “And I don’t want them to see me.”

"You mind them seeing you?"

Molly looks for amusement, but if Irene feels it, she isn’t showing it. “Yes. I mind.”

"Why?" Irene slides forward, her porcelain skin sounding obscenely in the hollow of the bath, and slips her soapy arms over Molly’s shoulders. "It’s not as if you have anything to be ashamed of. You’re beautiful, of course."

"You’re confusing me with you. You’re beautiful. I’m pasty and flabby and have gained five pounds in the last month."

"Four," murmurs Irene.

"No, definitely five," Molly says, and then splashes a frustrated tidal wave as the latest installment of gorgeous steps into the bathroom without knocking and says, "I know you said not to bother you, but… telephone for you, Ms. Adler. I think you’ll want to take it."

Irene looks a little too long at this one, frowns a little too hard before saying, “Thank you, Felice.”

Molly’s red faced from more than wine and heat, and her crossed arms are on the offensive as she watches the woman leave.

Irene watches her leave, too.

Molly watches Irene.

"Are you going to get that?" Molly says finally.

"Are you going to sulk about it all night?"

"Yes."

Irene smiles and stretches back, her arms behind her head. Molly concentrates on the sheen of water over Irene’s wiry triceps, on the way Irene’s breasts lift and settle, almost undulate, as Irene navigates easily through another potential argument.

"Then I’m not getting it."

It doesn’t make it better. Much.

Molly leans back, her nape warm and rough against the tub. This one—Felice?—wasn’t as pretty as the others, but something about her bothers Molly more. When she closes her eyes, she sees Felice’s baby blonde hair, imagines it falling thin and soft on Irene’s face. Imagines Irene smiling sharp and red and hot against Felice’s collarbones, which jutted forth from her starched white blouse like the prow of a ship breaking the salted ocean foam.

Molly breathes hard through her nose and tells herself she’s being ridiculous.

"I’m getting cold," Irene says finally. Molly keeps her eyes shut as Irene stands (with barely a sound, with nary a splash) and pulls one of the scented towels off the rack to rub herself dry and pink. "Don’t get too pruney. And don’t study too brown; I’m still not taking that call."

Molly grunts. She would wager half a year’s salary that Felice defies the laws of physics and physiology, that Felice swells like a peach in the bath and never has serotonin levels below 300 nanograms per millilitre.

Molly clenches her jaw and tells herself she’s being ridiculous.

She opens her eyes with a sigh and stands, splashing oily bath water over the edge of the tub as she clambers to her feet.

"Here, love." Irene, naked and flushed from the heat, holds out a towel. Molly snuggles her buttocks and back up against it, feeling the nubbled press of Irene’s hips through the thick terrycloth, the thin, prodding strength of Irene’s fingers as she rubs Molly dry.

The phone rings, far on the other side of the house. Felice answers politely, noncommittally, regretfully; the echo of her refusal drifts through the room and fades.

They smell the same, Molly and Irene, and this time, when Molly closes her eyes, there is nothing but the sweet insistence of Irene’s mouth against the nape of her neck and Irene’s tightly curled hair against the small of her back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite simply: the porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With epics and acres and oodles of thanks to [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/profile) for the beta, and to the tireless members of the [antidiogenes club](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/) for the word wars.

There is a heaviness on the fall of Molly’s shoulder, and it is Irene’s mouth; there is a heaviness over the pulse of Molly’s heart, and it is Irene’s hand; there is a lightness, a tightness over the rill of Molly’s cunt, and it is Irene, Irene, Irene.

Irene traces the rivulets that run from the ends of Molly’s hair and down the steps of her ribs. The water drips in fits and starts, lingering at each swell and racing south down the roundnesses of breast, belly, thigh. Molly’s head lolls back, and Irene’s shoulder is there to catch it.

“Bed?” Molly’s triumphs are small, and hard won: her voice wobbles not at all. Not that Irene would think any less of her if it did, but Molly wants some of her words delivered with more strength than supplication.

“Bed,” Irene agrees, the **D** so hard on her palate that she nearly chokes on it.

Molly lies back, her damp skin sticking to the limp and scented sheets. _Beige_ , she thinks ritualistically, purposefully, just to prove she can. _Irene should really think about painting the ceiling beige_. And then Irene’s lips are pushing lightly at the corners of Molly’s mouth, each wriggling prod of her tongue sending shivers that tingle along Molly’s jaw before they buzz in the bones of her face and fizzle throughout the rest of her body, and Irene is whispering, “How long do you think I can do this before you beg me to kiss you?”

Seconds, minutes--they lose count when Molly falls back on her usual alternative to osculation, which is biting.

“You--” Irene starts, and then bites back, incisors, canines, catching Molly’s lower lip, which curves upward in something half-smile, half-snarl. Irene catches and holds, and holds still longer. Molly lays the tip of her tongue on those white teeth, feels the ridged smoothness against the muscles of her mouth. She slackens her lips.

Irene lets her go.

“Cheat,” Irene says. Her eyebrows dip down in a deep **V** , nesting easily into the pattern already set by her sharp nose, sharp jaw, by her sternomastoid and clavicles and legs clamped together to press her cunt closed and sulking and deliberately out of reach. She drapes her hands on her hips, framing her dark mat of pubic hair with those red-tipped fingers.

“Kiss me,” Molly whispers, all sibilance and want. “Please.”

Irene barely smiles. “Say it again.”

Molly rises up on her elbows. She digs her hands into the sheets to keep them from reaching out. “No.”

In the time it takes Molly to blink, Irene has two white fingers breaking the pink circle of Molly’s nipple, her other hand hard against Molly’s arching back to grind the round jut of her pubic bone against Molly’s clit. “Say--”

Molly kisses her, pushing hard against the wet limit of tense lips and unyielding teeth.

“Say--” Irene says again, parting her lips, and Molly slips past the bravado, flickers her tongue gentle against Irene’s. She pulls back to catch her breath before kissing Irene again, an apology in the softness of of her mouth. Irene huffs impatiently through her nose, brings her hands to Molly’s cheeks, and pulls her in.

Irene’s fingers smell of wet roses, and wet skin, and another kind of wetness altogether.

Molly turns the kiss into something darker, harder; something both of them feed and neither controls. She presses her hips hard into Irene’s. The wiry tangle of Irene’s hair prickles into her skin with a high, damp crackle, and Molly wraps her right arm wide around Irene until she can slot her middle and ring fingers deep into the furrow between Irene’s buttocks and just--just--touch the bloom of wetness between them.

Irene’s breath hitches in Molly’s mouth. Irene pulls back, eyes tight shut, the luxurious stretch of Molly’s lower lip caught in her teeth, then gone. She rests her forehead on Molly’s shoulder for a moment, exhaling long, controlled, and then presses her hands down on either side of Molly’s head to lever herself farther up on the bed.

Molly’s fingers curl, her wrist bends, and she’s pushing into Irene’s cunt so slowly that tremors shiver up and down her arm from the strain. Irene clenches and releases, clenches and releases, hard, around Molly’s fingers, dragging the walls of her cunt up and down those thin digits. Molly presses in farther. Her nails and knuckles drum ineffectually against the rougher patch of tissue two inches in that Irene’s always exhorting her to rub harder, press harder, Molly, please, _harder_ , but right now Molly has no leverage to comply, and Irene is groaning her frustration into the pillow, the vibrations buzzing against Molly’s ear.

“Off,” Molly says. Irene rolls awkwardly, trying to situate Molly atop her without separating her cunt from Molly’s fingers, and the memory drifts through Molly’s mind of those bodies wrapped in the shrinking rites of their own arms, buried together so long that pulling the one from the other would collapse the two into an entirely new creature, complete but indecipherable.

Leverage, Molly thinks. She remembers once hearing a friend of Irene’s purr that if you have a lever long enough and a fulcrum firm enough, then you can move the world. Molly’s lever measures exactly seven and a half centimetres long, tipped in a clean pink nail with just the smallest crescent of white at its bottom rim. She slides into Irene cleanly, no hesitation from angle or tease, and kisses softly, long, at the hollow where Irene’s collarbones nearly meet. A ripe kiss right at her centre, a lick in the same place, and the next kiss set below it, each meeting of lips on skin a word hinging on the word before it to string a poem, stuttered, but sure of its sentiment, along Irene’s sternum.

Irene’s sigh flows low, soft: encouragement rather than an entirely honest expression. Molly takes pity and crooks her fingers. _Come here. Come soon_.

Irene twitches her hips, an impatient shift. _Will you get on with it already?_ and Molly’s lips grin into Irene’s belly button. Molly slides lower, until the prickling nuzzle of Irene’s pubic hair tickles her nose (her fingers slip, just a bit, as she repositions herself on the bed, and Irene sighs louder) and she can split Irene’s perfectly aligned lips ever so slightly out of alignment.

Irene’s only a little wet. Her body needs more encouragement than Molly would have believed, wants more convincing than Irene herself would prefer. It takes her near half an hour before the edges of her lips grow truly slick, half an hour of deep kisses and full attention and the lightest touch Molly can muster. There can never be any rush, no matter how much Irene wishes otherwise. Molly likes the ritual of it. The intent, the persuasion, the hard-won wetness blossoming under her touch to spread over Irene’s lips and hers as she asks with her fingers, pleads with her tongue. The answer of Irene’s sighs, the reluctance of her moans; the dialogue of Molly against Irene, both of them against Irene’s body, and both of them with the satisfaction of the last word.

Molly pulls her fingers back just the smallest bit as she dips her head and licks. Her tongue wriggles at the neat juncture of Irene’s lips, slips under until the nub of Irene’s clit sits at the tip of her tongue, just for a moment, before she retreats and slides the flat of her tongue top to bottom, and back, scooping the small taste already present into her mouth. Irene tastes of salt and bitterness, the taste of herbs dipped in the sea and squeezed over her tongue. Molly swallows, and Irene shifts, and Molly tastes again. She takes that taste over and over, from every angle she can work, pressing and urging with her fingers, and Irene gasps, holds her breath, gasps again; and breaks.

“Harder,” Irene says, her fingers pressing divots into Molly’s shoulders, showing her what to do. “Harder, please, don’t--”

Molly’s finger crooks harder once, and then she flicks it, tapping a slow and intent code on the roof of Irene’s cunt as Irene rumbles a noise low and rough through her throat and grips Molly’s shoulder hard, too hard. She apologises with another gasp, runs the fingers of her right hand lightly through Molly’s hair to scratch luxuriously at her scalp, and Molly gives in, crooking her fingers hard over and over, pulling the slickness from Irene’s cunt with wet churning noises. Irene grips a fistful of Molly’s hair hard at the nape as Molly works circles around Irene’s clit with her tiring tongue. Her lips slide haphazardly over the smearing line of Irene’s pubic hair, and she’s pressing her thighs together to keep from rubbing the fingers of her free hand over her own clit, and instead she’s holding on to Irene’s riding hips as hard as Irene’s holding on to her firm shoulders; and Irene chokes, quiet and low, and comes.

It takes her a minute, Molly’s mouth still fastened over her clit and her fingers still in the clutching throb of her cunt. Irene looses her grip and draws her fingers lightly over the red spots on Molly’s shoulders, stroking the skin with gentle stripes as the tremors wrack her body. Molly wriggles her fingers experimentally, and Irene’s cunt clutches at her again as Irene arches her back and curses: “Fuck,” she says, “ _fuck_ ,” and Molly takes pity and holds still once more.

The way Irene deliberately arches and relaxes, curves and straightens, is one of Molly’s favourite things about her. Irene knows nothing casually, not calculus, not the theory of evolution, not the floorplan of Harrods or the schedule of flights departing from Heathrow and Gatwick to countries without extradition treaties. And certainly not her own body. Her knowledge is intimate and comprehensive. She knows the length of her hair and the weight she can bench press; she knows her resting heart rate, and how long it will take her to reach it from any state Molly can induce upon her.

Molly has a greater working knowledge of the bodies of strangers, of the strength it takes to open a fat man’s ribs, of the gnarls and wounds a dancer’s feet develop. Molly and her own body are on much less intrusive terms. They still surprise each other, Molly learning new and exciting things her body can endure, her body accommodating requests neither of them knew she’d ever make of it. Right now the muscles in her neck burn, bright flashes of pain against the duller, persistent cocktail of lactic acid and calcium; and her fingers are tingling. The hyper-sensitivity that has Irene still protesting with small wriggles and half-made noises is something Molly’s happy to see, happier still to have caused. But as practiced a pleasure as it is to feel the walls of Irene’s cunt flutter luxuriously over Molly’s wrinkled fingers, to tease the throb from her own clit as she presses her legs together and waits--waits--it’s all still new. Irene is nothing if not consistent, but Molly, though she knows what to expect, always seems to forget it.

They breathe together, the sound of London below as distant as an echo.

Irene stirs. “Molly, my Molly, I--”

Molly twists her neck, rolls her shoulder. “I’m good.”

“Come here.”

Molly pulls her fingers free and shifts, and Irene catches hold of that wet hand to paint her own breast, wet fingers blundering broad stripes over her nipple. She smiles at Molly simply, happily, grasping Molly’s bottom with her free hand to press them closer.

“Kiss me,” Irene says.

Molly presses her soaked lips and chin into Irene’s dry ones, gives her the taste of her desire and the raw flesh resultant. Irene kisses her with no urgency. She curls her tongue around Molly’s, licks at the corner of Molly’s mouth, sucks on her chin, runs her tongue along the smooth ridge of Molly’s teeth. Brandy from a snifter, champagne from a flute: everything worth taking into your mouth tastes its best from one particular sort of transport, and Molly is a willing vessel. Molly pulls lightly at Irene’s nipple, mindful of that full-body tenderness that descends after Irene’s first orgasm of the night. She’ll be less careful after the second, downright cavalier after the third; but after the first, Irene’s slim form wants ease and savouring.

“Your turn,” Irene says muzzily against Molly’s lips, still taking her taste back from Molly’s mouth.

“Oh, I’m fine--” Molly begins, and Irene rolls her eyes because this, too, is part of the ritual; and if Molly still says it, at least she means it less than she used to.

“How do you want me?” Irene asks.

“With--with both of us--”

Irene flips and maneuvers until she can kiss Molly’s knees, lick and mouth the delicate juncture of calf to thigh, then kiss downward to Molly’s cunt. Molly prefers both of them on their sides to one of them on top, so Irene pulls Molly up and they both prop their heads on one arm, their elbows sinking deep into the feathers of Irene’s mattress pad. Irene nuzzles the wide, sensitive line where Molly’s thigh meets her body, and Molly wriggles through the half-pleasure, half-tickle. She giggles, the sound high and delighted, and presses her lips soft against the light hood pulled back from Irene’s clit.

Irene whines, on purpose.

“Sorry,” says Molly, not meaning it, not even trying to hide that she doesn’t mean it, and now it’s Irene trilling that high and delighted giggle. The peals hang bright in the dim grey air, a small, spontaneous celebration of Molly’s apologies turned tease, and everything that means. “Are you too--” Molly says, and then Irene buries her tongue deep along the ripe line that sources from Molly’s clit, sucks Molly’s lower-hanging left fold into her mouth, and Molly has no breath left for cheek.

She gives herself thirty seconds for grounding, another thirty for selfishness. Irene has her hands on either of Molly’s buttocks, massaging them, pulling them apart for the sheer pleasure of feeling the sympathetic spread of Molly’s cunt against her tongue. Molly raises her left leg awkwardly and rests her foot behind Irene’s shoulder. She has her cheek against the slightly sweaty softness of Irene’s thigh, her arms wrapped around Irene’s hips, her breasts mashed up against Irene’s belly; but she feels no sensation other than the slight rasp of Irene’s tongue against her stubble, the controlled edge of Irene’s teeth on her clit, and the wet stretch as Irene’s fingers quest along the rim of her cunt.

Molly’s going a little dizzy. “You do that so… so very…”

Irene pulls her mouth away with an exaggerated slurp. “So,” she says pointedly, “do you.”

Molly laughs. Her stomach pulls from Irene’s breasts and sticks to them again, the whole silly process and sensation repeating for every peal of Molly’s laughter; and then Irene’s laughing with her, and it’s not that funny, it _isn’t_ , but neither of them can stop shaking against the other, muffling their mouths against each other’s thighs, scenting each other’s wetness from the source with every amused inhalation.

Molly subsides to a chuckle just as Irene gives a heavy sigh. She rubs her cheek against Irene’s thigh, noses at the wiry tickle of hair she’s teased out of formation. Irene hums appreciation, a low buzz that begins in her chest, runs up through her throat, and filters sweetly through the smile Molly can still hear.

“Shall we,” Irene says, with only the lightest of emphases on the pronoun, “try again?”

“Yes, please,” says Molly. She pulls her left arm about and fits it between their bodies. She draws her first two fingers gently along Irene’s labia, down and up and down again; and then she spreads Irene open and lays her lips close, so close, to Irene’s clit. “Ready when you are,” she says, her tongue darting out punctuation.

“Oh, you--” Irene says, and then engulfs Molly’s cunt with a mouth pulled as long and open as it will go.

Irene has her lower lip working lazily against Molly’s clit, and she's doing something magical with suction to Molly’s labia, alternated with her tongue lapping in a design Molly can't quite identify. But the reason, the whole reason they first tried this position (besides wanting to give everything a go) was because Molly would get so lost thinking of each sensation, would go completely distracted trying to dissect the how and why of every thrill, every surge of adrenalin, every inadvertent moan and clutch of her cunt, that she simply couldn’t have an orgasm. The first time Irene had gone down on her, Molly had utterly lost herself simultaneously feeling everything and trying to feel more of everything, that Irene’s tongue had clutched up in a cramp from dogged stubbornness, and Molly still hadn’t come.

Irene had massaged her jaw sullenly. “What,” she’d said, with more quiet outrage than Molly thought was really warranted, what with her having come twice already, “are you _doing_?”

“Uh…”

“Are you trying to hold out on me?”

“No! No, I’m trying _not_ to, I promise, really I am, I--”

“Oh.” And all of Irene’s irritation had just fallen away, leaving only her smile. “Of course you are. I should have realised. _Scientists_. We’ll just have to give you something else to think about, is all.” And she’d flipped around, hovering her cunt over Molly’s unhappy mouth, and said, “Make me come.”

And Molly had tried, and she’d succeeded; but not before Irene’s tongue and lips and teeth had wrung two orgasms from Molly first.

Molly can come without her mouth on Irene now, but it’s easier with a distraction. She needs to be doing something, anything, other than trying to have an orgasm. And the most potent distraction available happens to be Irene. So she leans into Irene’s bones, strokes up and down Irene’s long and torqued spine, sets her bottom teeth over Irene’s pubic bone, and licks.

Irene whines, sudden and sharp, and not on purpose.

Molly smiles into Irene’s cunt, with Irene’s clit pressed gently between Molly’s lips and Molly’s nose absolutely soaked. Irene bucks hard, once, then holds her hips steady. Molly lets Irene’s clit slip free, catches it again, lets it go. Twice. Three times. Over and over again, until Molly loses count, loses thought for anything other than that simple set of motions. The catch and pressure and slip, catch and pressure and slip, with her thumb deep in Irene’s cunt and no notion when it got there, but it’s there now, that’s all that matters, and Irene’s holding on hard, pressing the wiry white length of her hard into Molly’s softer body, and Molly’s churning circles with that buried thumb and still suckling gently, loosing Irene’s clit gently, and Molly realises that she’s making some kind of completely embarrassing noise halfway between a honk and a whimper and then she’s going rigid and there, _there_ she is, and she comes.

Irene makes a strangled noise of triumph, slightly hindered by the fact that Molly’s cunt is still spasming and clutching the muscled column of her tongue. She grips her nails deep into Molly’s buttocks, pulls her mouth away, and lays a light kiss over Molly’s pubic bone.

Molly cries out once, softly.

“Yes,” says Irene. Molly’s not sure what Irene’s agreeing with or confirming, and she’s having a hard time caring. She slides her thumb free and maneuvers about until she can collapse with her head cradled in Irene’s shoulder.

“Did--did you...?” she says, when she has her breath back.

“No,” says Irene, sounding perfectly content.

“Oh,” says Molly, and she scrambles as Irene barks laughter and says, “No, no, love, it’s fine, I, oh, really, if you, all _right_ then.”

Molly’s got two fingers deep in Irene’s cunt, which is almost too slippery with Irene’s sweat and wetness and Molly’s saliva. It’s hard to get the right sort of friction, but Molly tries, the knuckles of her hard against the easy stretch of Irene’s cunt. Irene reaches down between them and wipes some of the mess away with her palm, which she rubs on the bedclothes before reaching back and stirring circles around her clit with her fingers.

Molly pumps her two fingers slowly, waiting.

“Harder,” Irene says, breathes, when she’s ready.

Molly slows.

“Harder, really, please, Molly, I’m ready--”

Molly chuckles dark in her throat and gives in, weighs down as heavy as she can atop Irene with her hand thrusting hard into Irene’s cunt and the inside of her wrist jamming uncomfortably against Irene’s fingertips, which move faster and faster and more haphazardly between them. Irene’s breathing hard, the tail end of each inhalation catching in her mouth in a way that nearly breaks Molly’s heart and has her dripping afresh. Molly presses her clit into the back of Irene’s moving hand, and she sucks at the sweat on Irene’s neck.

“Kiss me when you come,” Molly says; and Irene throws her head back, clutches her cunt, and kisses Molly with all her body and breath, mingling the tastes of them in their mouths as Molly’s hand thrusts, and thrusts, and stills.

She breathes in the pattern Irene sets. She was close enough, from the smooth nubbles of Irene's knuckles grinding hard against her clit, that she could reach down and rub herself another as she feeds on Irene's smooth and swollen mouth. But she could let it go, too, let her body quiet as she runs her wet fingers over Irene's belly and measures Irene's deep heartbeat against her own; and this is what she does.

They kiss lazily, easily, for a long while as the shadows lengthen and the sounds of London play on. Irene sucks gently at Molly’s chin, kisses a line over her jawbone to each ear, drops small kisses around the rim of Molly’s lips as Molly smiles. She’s still laying trails of kisses on Molly’s throat as Molly slips into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly gives herself ten beautiful minutes of nothing at all when she wakes. Then she hauls herself upward and begins pulling on her stockings.

“Going somewhere?" Irene’s voice barely makes it past the pillow muffling it. She's still face down, damp, her hair rumpled into a tangled mass that looks better than Molly’s ever does.

“The shops,” Molly says, grunting as she pulls on her first boot.

“Felice can go. Give her a list.”

“No,” Molly says, trying to hold on to the pleasure called up by Irene’s obvious desire to spend more time with her, rather than the jealousy that surges from the implicit compliment to Felice and her ever-lengthening list of capabilities. “I want to go myself.”

“Then take her with you. She can carry bags and things.”

“No,” Molly says again, deeper and sharper this time.

Irene lifts her head for that tone. Her eyes are huge in the dark. “Why not?”

“I just don’t want her to go with me. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Irene blinks a couple of times, her gaze directed randomly at the bedstead. “I suppose I could go with you.”

“For God’s sake, Irene, I can make it to Waitrose without--you’ll go with me?”

Irene’s already doing up her trousers. “Sure. Yes. Why not?”

“You’re going to go with me. To buy groceries. At Waitrose.”

“You sound like William Shatner.”

“But you don’t go to the shops. Or to the--well, to the anything, as far as I can tell, other than to clients. Even your manicurist comes here.”

Irene’s ready--dressed and coiffed and perfectly, understatedly made up--and Molly is still standing there with her left boot hanging from limp fingers. Irene pulls the boot gently from Molly’s hand. She kneels in one swift movement and squirms Molly’s foot down the shaft, rocking the boot back and forth gently until it’s settled on Molly’s limp foot. Then she does up the laces.

Irene stands and brushes her hands down her trousers. Molly looks at the faint streaks of grey that bloom under Irene’s long fingers. Irene appears not to care that she’s just scraped half of London off the bottoms of Molly’s boots and onto her designer trousers, but she does care that Molly’s standing there like a lump, still unable to comprehend that she, Irene Adler, is going to accompany her, Molly Hooper, to the shops to buy ice cream and tampons.

“Molly?”

This is what it’s like, Molly realises. This is what it’s like to be really, truly important to someone.

“Last one to the door is a rotten egg,” Molly says, and the two of them pound little crescent-shaped divots into Irene’s cherrywood floors trying to make it to the massive front door first.

*****

Molly lets Felice go with her the next time. She realises that it’s just Irene’s way of intimating that she cares, and Molly’s never been one to mute declarations of affection. Irene might have yet to say that she loves Molly, or even that she likes her. But Molly’s clothes are always laundered, pressed, and mended in the morning; Molly gets a ride to work any night that she stays at Irene’s flat; and Molly gets a personal assistant with a perpetually mild smile and better lines than a prizewinning poodle.

It’s their six-month anniversary. Molly would have let it go by unmarked, except that Irene asked rather too casually if she’d anything planned that night. Molly’s surprise at Irene’s bored tone melted into amused understanding as she looked up and saw Kate winking at her furiously from over Irene’s shoulder; and so Molly shrugged and said she supposed she could drop by.

As soon as Irene left--something to do with work, Molly wasn't sure what, and this was no time to inquire--Molly pulled out her mobile and dialled Felice.

“Hello, Miss Hooper.”

“Felice, are you free this afternoon?”

Molly imagined that she could hear papers shuffling as Felice moved heaven, earth, and her day’s appointments. “I’m free all day, Miss Hooper.”

“Right. Could you... do you know of any good fancy dress shops? Somewhere I can get something nice, but not too dear?”

“Yes, Miss Hooper.”

“And do you... do you think you could maybe come with me? And help me pick out a dress?”

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Hooper. Shall I come ‘round for you now, or would you prefer me to meet you later?”

Molly had twelve Oh Shit days saved up, and Reagan down at the morgue owes her a favour or two. Better to call out than to try squeeze a week’s worth of shopping and primping into two hours. “Now is fine, Felice.”

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes, Miss Hooper.”

*****

“I look like a whale.”

Felice looks up from a German fashion magazine. “More like a mermaid.”

“One that’s half-whale instead of half-fish, maybe. God, why is this so difficult?”

Felice’s voice is pure fact, with no hint of accusation or derision. “Because you’re trying on dresses that are two sizes too large.”

“What? No, I’m not, I’m--bother. Please unzip me. I can’t reach.”

Felice twitches her fingers, and the dress magically separates into two still-inadequate halves. She tosses it over a brocade chair, majestically unconcerned for wrinkles, and struts out of the dressing room, leaving Molly standing in her faded pink knickers on the lush carpet. A salesperson materialises from nowhere and whisks the rejected frock away, leaving behind a fresh flute of champagne and a whiff of musk.

Molly has no energy left to be embarrassed at being seen in her pants and bra. She’s flipping through Felice’s abandoned magazine and wondering how many languages Irene’s minions collectively speak when Felice returns with two black dresses over her arm. Or they might be one very complicated black dress. Fashion was never Molly’s forté.

“This one,” Felice says, holding her right arm out. An inky streak of velvet and silk waterfalls from her hand.

Molly stands behind the dress and eyes the mirror critically. “It looks a little...”

“Yes, Miss Hooper?”

“A little... little.”

“Little?”

“Too small.”

Felice does not sigh, but she might as well. “It’s your size, Miss Hooper. Believe me.” She hands the dress to Molly, who holds it gingerly against her bosom. There’s not enough back to deserve the name, but the underside of the bodice feels wonderful against her décolletage, and the skirt swishes against her legs with a pleasing weight.

“You could at least try it on,” Felice says.

Molly fumbles with the jet buttons for ten seconds before she yields to Felice’s expertise and allows herself to be enfolded in the black velvet. She closes her eyes as the high neckline settles around her throat. It feels much nicer than the patterned turtlenecks she’s been wearing lately, she has to admit. It also feels cold. In addition to her exposed back, a jagged pattern of slashes in the fabric shows long swaths of Molly’s tummy.

“I can’t wear this,” Molly says, hunching forward. “It’s indecent.”

But it’s also lovely, the most beautiful thing--other than Irene--that she’s ever had on her body. As she rounds her shoulders and holds her arms tight across her stomach, her fingers fan over the cutouts in the velvet. And it’s a delicious feeling, a little bit odd and a little bit naughty. She looks down and runs her hands over the soft slope of her belly down to her thighs, and she loves it, the alternating tickle and anticipation as her fingers find skin, only to have the velvet separate them for the briefest of breaths before she can touch herself again.

Molly imagines Irene seeing her in this dress, touching her in this dress, and Molly’s skin prickles with sweat and blush.

Felice coughs delicately.

Molly smiles sheepishly as she raises her head.

Felice’s mouth twitches. “Shall I have them wrap it up, Miss Hooper?”

“Wait, just let me check... Oh.”

“‘Oh’?”

“It’s a bit... well, it’s a bit. Um. Expensive.”

Felice frowns as if the word were a personal insult, and Molly rushes on. “It’s worth every penny--more, even--but I just don’t know that I can... oh, but it’s so pretty!”

Felice’s frown clears, replaced by an expression Molly can’t even name. And then Felice manufactures a smile so terrible that Molly backs up a step, though she can tell that it isn’t directed at her. And while Molly is generally successful at forward locomotion, walking backward in an unfamiliar dress with a train while a monster of efficiency smiles at you (with something that Molly immediately decides to dub the _effective_ smile) proves to be more than Molly can manage. Molly trips and lands on her arse in a puddle of heavy black luxury, hitting her thigh on the edge of the brocade chair on her way down.

Felice’s effective smile disappears as her mouth goes into a wide **O** of surprise, and she kneels and scrabbles at Molly’s skirt with more concern than Molly really thinks is necessary.

“Are you all right, Miss Hooper? Are you hurt?” Felice’s hands are firm and gentle on Molly’s skin as she pushes the skirt out of the way and straightens Molly’s leg. “Oh, no.”

Molly shrugs at the darkening bruise on her thigh. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It doesn’t even hurt.” She braces her arms behind her to stand, but Felice shakes her head and plants her hand on Molly’s shoulder.

The salesperson hurries toward them. Felice snaps out, “Ice,” without looking away from Molly’s thigh. Felice has her hands on either side of the bruise, and she’s studying it as if the intensity of her gaze could melt it away.

Molly sits still and feels foolish.

The salesperson returns, a bag of ice and a black satin garter clutched in one hand. Felice holds out her arm, still not looking away from Molly’s leg, and the salesperson plops them into the outstretched hand.

Felice says, “This is going to hurt a bit.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Molly says. “It’s just a bruise. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.” It does sting, though, the sudden cold against her inflamed skin. She presses her lips tight against the hiss that wants to escape, and she doesn’t flinch as Felice eases the garter up her leg and tightens it around the ice pack.

The salesperson whispers something into Felice’s ear. Felice gives the poor thing the questionable compliment of her full attention and smiles that effective smile. The salesperson whispers something else. Felice nods once, sharp, and the salesperson flees.

Felice looks at Molly, who knows by now not to bother asking questions. “Can you sit, Miss Hooper? If I help you into that chair, do you think you could take the dress off?”

“Don’t be silly, of course I can.” Molly holds her arms out, and together they ease her into the chair and wiggle her out of the dress.

“Pity,” Molly says.

“It is, Miss Hooper.”

“Still, it doesn’t matter much. We have enough time for one or two more places, don’t we? What do you think, an hour to do my hair and makeup?”

Felice stops in the middle of pulling out her mobile. “One or two more places? Do you not want the dress, then?”

“Oh, well, I do. Of course. I just don’t think I can be spending that right now.” Molly looks Felice in the eye and refuses to feel bad about staying within her budget.

“Oh.” Felice goes back to her phone. “The shopkeeper kindly informed me that they are having a sale. Sixty percent off the lowest price on the ticket. I believe that falls well within the range we discussed earlier. Of course, if you aren’t satisfied with the dress, then--”

“No--oh--really? Sixty percent? Wow.”

“Shall I have them wrap it up?”

It’s still pricey. But what the hell. Molly can almost picture the look on Irene’s face when she sees Molly in this dress, and Molly wants to know if the real thing looks like what she’s imagining. “Yes. Okay.”

“Good.” Felice stands and holds the dress over one arm as she helps Molly up with the other. “So just shoes, then?”

Molly angles her leg so she can see the icepack in the mirror. “No. I still have that pair from when we went to see _Nabucco_ last month. They’ll do.”

“As you like, Miss Hooper.” Felice holds out Molly’s blouse, and for just a moment it looks, in the mirror, as if Felice is holding it up against her own lovely body, under her own lovely face. Molly sighs inwardly. She’d give anything--well, almost anything--to look like Felice. Molly shrugs herself into the blouse and gives a last, longing glance at them in the mirror, at Felice’s proud, slim form next to her own.

Only--

No. That can’t be.

Only--it looks as if--

“Felice? Would you come stand by me, please?”

“Miss Hooper, we really must hurry if we’re going to--”

“Please.”

Felice hesitates, her eyes shifting. Then she walks back to the mirror and stands next to Molly.

“Would you please...” Molly frowns, then continues. “Would you please take off your shoes?”

Felice toes off her impossible heels and stands in her stocking feet.

How did she never notice it before? They are exactly the same height. The breadth of their shoulders, narrow and pale, is the same; their breasts, allowing for Felice’s superior supportive undergarments, hang with the same weight. Felice even has--dear God, Felice even has that freckle high on the left side of her neck. Molly’s hated that freckle all her life. She pestered her mum for two years solid to have that freckle surgically removed. Molly forces her gaze downward, flicking from Felice’s reflection back to her own, over and over again. The same too-long second toes. Four hipbones jutting out in identical angles, a mirrored set of a mirrored set. Legs starting at the same height. Soft, rounded bellies exactly alike, which should have tipped Molly off long ago--when had she ever before seen someone in Irene’s employ who wasn’t in magazine cover shape?

“Miss Hooper?”

Molly ignores her. She remembers that day in the morgue--it seems like an entirely different part of her life--when Mycroft and Sherlock stood around a body that everyone believed to be Irene Adler’s. Molly remembers asking how Sherlock could positively identify a corpse without the benefit of an unmolested face. Mere months later, Molly would run her hands and tongue over the body that the corpse was meant to represent, and she would realise that the fault hadn’t been Sherlock’s: Irene had chosen a truly exact copy of herself, identical down to the slightly scaly knees, the birthmark on her right thigh, and the over-long head line on her palm. Irene had kept this person, this body, in reserve, waiting for the day when she might have to kill her, bludgeon her face beyond all recognition, and leave her alone in the cold.

And now Molly is looking in the mirror at herself and at Felice, who is really no prettier or better formed than Molly; Molly can see that now. Felice must just hold herself in a way that makes people think she’s prettier. Because Felice, if her face were battered past the point of recognition--Molly feels a little sick thinking of it, thinking of who gets paid to do that--Felice looks exactly like Molly.

This is what it’s like, Molly realises. This is what it’s like to be really, truly important to Irene Adler.


End file.
